Shell
by Ceri Moriarty
Summary: For a prompt on the meme, which boiled down to: "tl;dr AU with self-conscious and insecure Sherlock." Probably eventual John/Sherlock.


_a/n: Apologies for some confusion; this is the proper first chapter, not that little tiny fragment._

_So, this is a fill that I'm working on for the sherlockbbc_fic meme. I received a request to post it over here, so, uh, posting it over here. Updates will probably be slow, even slower than for the meme, and I apologise for this in advance. Also: dear god why do I have so many WIPs. WHY._

_For the record, I based Sherlock's experiences very heavily off my own. I didn't get into fights as a child, nor did I have Sherlock's deductive capability (still don't, for that matter), but the whole having-absolutely-no-friends thing was my elementary school experience. Suppose that's why I get so into fandom—the characters become my friends, and drawing the line between imaginary and real in terms of people is tough._

_Derp. Enough of my over-emotional rambling. Enjoy the story._

_Characters not mine, plot not mine (borrowed from prompter). Any and all feedback is greatly loved._

* * *

><p><strong>1.<strong>

Sherlock Holmes entered primary school a bright and happy child, endlessly observing and commenting on those observations. He learnt many things in primary school - oh, not the subjects taught in classrooms; he could learn those easily enough on his own - chief among them that people reacted poorly when their secrets were exposed to the world. They said mean things; one or two or ten of them tried to hurt him.

Mummy was always so disappointed when he came home with a black eye or a split lip or a skinned knee. "I understand childish enthusiasm, dear," she would say as she put ice on his bruises and sticking-plasters on his cuts. "But couldn't you try to get along better with the other children?"

Sherlock didn't want to disappoint Mummy. Mummy was the best person in the whole world, even better than Mycroft, who was mostly off at boarding school anyway. So Sherlock nodded, and tried to get along better with his schoolmates. But none of them seemed to want to talk to him - they all ignored him, or talked around him, or glared sideways at him and whispered _freak_. Sherlock didn't understand it at all - was there some set of instructions he'd missed? Some lesson he'd been absent for? Some code of rules on how to be friends with people?

He wondered why no-one would play with him, no matter how nicely he asked. Was it because they were basically bad people? Was it because he was inherently unlikable? Was it because they didn't like something he did?

But, no, the first one couldn't be it, because they got along with each other just fine. It couldn't be the second one, either - his teachers liked him well enough, when they weren't annoyed at him for correcting them.

Eliminate the impossible, and what remained, however improbable, had to be the truth. There was something he did that made his yearmates dislike him. But he was unfailingly polite; he never hit back; he agreed to play their game no matter how completely idiotic it was.

Could it be that they objected to his observations, inferences, and comments? Initially Sherlock rejected that hypothesis - whyever would people object to being told the truth? However, after some time, he was forced to acknowledge that that was the likely cause of their ire.

So he stopped. He couldn't stop observing, or inferring details from those observations (his brain didn't have an obvious off-switch), but he tried to stop blurting out whatever he saw. It was difficult - whenever he saw something interesting, he wanted to share it immediately, with everyone within earshot - but it was necessary, in order to get along with his schoolmates so Mummy wouldn't be disappointed. So Sherlock bit back all his deductions, his inferences, his observations of all the little things people told the world without a single word.

His schoolmates still refused to talk to him. He supposed they might still carry grudges from all that time ago (ridiculous, but primary-school children weren't yet expected to be rational). Boarding school would be better - a fresh start, new people who didn't know him, who didn't know the child he used to be.

It wasn't. Everyone already had a best friend, and a second-best friend, and Sherlock had no-one. The habit of quiet isolation was part of him now, and that in itself set him apart from his peers (circular, but the logic of human behaviour was frequently flawed). People still glared sideways at him and whispered _freak_. Sherlock took to retreating to the school library during lunch breaks - books wouldn't sneer at him, and he wasn't hungry anyway.

* * *

><p>University was a little better—the work was more challenging, more interesting, and Sherlock tried to get out and socialise. He even made a group of friends: Seb Wilkes and his crowd. They weren't always very nice, but Sherlock wasn't very nice either, and it was such a relief to finally be accepted by <em>someone<em> that he didn't question his good fortune.

It was going so well, in fact, that Sherlock tried out a bit of deduction. He'd kept in practice, of course, but he hadn't shared his conclusions with anyone other than Mycroft in over a decade. He picked a random passing stranger to observe—if it went badly, he didn't want the more complete rejection that would certainly come if he accidentally insulted one of Wilkes' friends or Wilkes himself.

"That man, there, he's a construction worker," said Sherlock, apropos of nothing, one afternoon as they were all lazing about on the quad, supposedly doing classwork but in actuality faffing off.

"How d'you reckon?" asked Wilkes sleepily.

Sherlock explained his list of observations and the inferences drawn from them, feeling a bit like he was stripping off his clothes, one layer at a time. He waited for the inevitable reaction—the odd looks, the sideways glares and the whispers of _freak_, the turn-away-as-one, the loss of the first friends he'd ever had.

"That's—pretty cool," said one of Wilkes' mates (Jackson, wasn't that his name?), a chuckle behind the words. "Can you do that with anybody?"

"Deduction is universal," Sherlock said uncertainly. "So yes. I can."

"Let's see what you can tell about Wilkes here," suggested Jackson. "Go on, then."

Sherlock took a deep breath and turned off his filters keeping the words back. He looked Wilkes up and down, catalogued posture, nervous gestures, appearance, expression. Then he opened his mouth and let the deductions fall out. He started with basics, generalities, things he already knew—what Wilkes was studying, his favourite colour. From there he got a little more specific—Wilkes' academic progress so far (minimal), his relationship status (single, with frequent one-night stands), the proportion of time he spent off his head (high). At each successive revelation, Sherlock grew more and more confident, speaking louder than his usual low murmur, allowing his hands to move more freely. Finally he ended his ramble through Wilkes' personal history with, "—and your father won't care that you're gay, by the way—" and stopped, because Wilkes was looking at him like most people did, after Sherlock had laid out their lives for anyone to see. That look was usually accompanied by yelling, and then another person who hated him, ignored him, pretended he didn't exist, glared sideways at him and whispered _freak_. Sherlock shrank back, drawing his knees up to his chest and glancing from one member of the group to another, and they all had that sort of confused, slightly angry, just a bit fearful look people got when they listened to him deduce. "Sorry," Sherlock said quietly, resting his gaze on the grass. "Was that—not good?"

Wilkes raised his eyebrows, with that condescending look people got, sometimes, the one that asked if _anyone_ could be _that_ socially incompetent. "Very much not good," he bit out. "You don't just accuse a bloke of that in front of his mates! Especially when it's not true!"

Sherlock bit back what he wanted to say ("but it _is_ true, you've been questioning your sexuality since you were fifteen and had a crush on a boy a few years older, and now that you've got to uni you've had a chance to experiment, which confirmed it") with some difficulty—now that the filters had been taken down, they were refusing to go back up. Wilkes probably wouldn't appreciate any further discussion on the topic. "Sorry," he repeated instead, keeping his eyes down. "I was—I was joking. That was a joke."

"Not a very funny one," Wilkes muttered. "That was really creepy, you know? Just—saying all that crazy stuff. Where'd you find that out?"

"I didn't find it out—I saw it," said Sherlock. "It's obvious, if you know how to look." He immediately regretted that last sentence—if anything was guaranteed to put someone off, it was an insult to that person's intelligence.

"Obvious, huh?" said Wilkes. "That's—that's really fucking creepy, okay?"

Sherlock kept his eyes down and didn't respond. _Don't provoke him, make yourself small, don't be a threat…_

"Weirdo," Wilkes muttered, getting to his feet. "Just—stay the hell away from our lot, okay?" He strode off, gesturing for his other friends to follow him, and Sherlock was alone again.

Not for the first time, Sherlock cursed his intelligence and deductive abilities. Perhaps, if he were normal, people wouldn't turn away from him, wouldn't throw out words like _weirdo_ and _creep_, wouldn't glare sideways at him and whisper _freak_.

Perhaps he'd have friends, proper ones, if he were normal.

* * *

><p>Sherlock dropped out of uni after three years, because he still hadn't figured out what he wanted to do with his life. Detective work was <em>fascinating<em>, but he didn't tolerate authority well. Besides, he probably wouldn't be any good at it. A talent for observation and deduction was all well and good, but would it work when confronted with objects instead of living people?

_Probably not,_ Sherlock decided.

Chemistry might be interesting, but most chemical fields required a degree, which Sherlock didn't have and wasn't likely to get.

He had his violin, but it was _hard_ to make money as a musician. One had to be good—really, _really_ good—and he wasn't all that talented. Mycroft was much better.

Sherlock eventually got a job at a library, because he had a semi-decent memory for things that interested him and the percentage of time spent interacting with idiots was likely to be smaller.

There was only one problem: as a librarian, he didn't make that much money, and it was very expensive to live in London by oneself. He supposed he might get a flatshare, but the mere idea was vaguely frightening—a strange person, sharing his space, and they'd probably make a fuss about the chemicals in the kitchen, and the skull, and the violin. Sherlock wanted to have a space entirely his own, where no one could tell him to _shutupgoawayyou'renotwantedhere_.

He was considering this dilemma while at work one day, and he must've been speaking aloud because one of the patrons (overweight, medical doctor but more teaching than in practice, working at St. Bartholomew's Hospital, of a generally cheery disposition but took some delight in tormenting his students) tapped him on the shoulder.

Sherlock clamped down on his initial panicked reaction (stranger, touching, _in my space_) and turned around, pasting a false smile onto his face. "Can I help you, sir?" he said pleasantly, stomping firmly on the irritation that insisted on rising.

"I couldn't help overhearing that you're looking for a flatshare," said the doctor. "I've got a friend—his name's John Watson—who's in the same spot of bother. Maybe you two could go look at a flat together, see how you get along."

Sherlock shook his head, projecting cool indifference instead of letting his panic show. "No, you don't have to—I wouldn't want to inconvenience anyone," he said quickly.

"It wouldn't be an inconvenience," said the doctor. "Point of fact, it'd be a right help to John. A flatmate'd do him good, I think."

_Unlikely_, was the thought that flashed through Sherlock's head. _Wherever I go, I trail behind me annoyance and creepiness and freakishness. There's no way I could do anybody good._ But what he said was, "Yes, fine—what was your name? And where and when should I meet your friend?"

"My name's Mike Stamford," said the doctor, offering a hand to shake. "And how does tomorrow, front of the library, seven o'clock in the evening sound?"

"Sherlock Holmes," said Sherlock, shaking Stamford's hand. "And that will work.

* * *

><p>John leaned carefully on his cane and looked around at the people trickling in and out of the library. Mike had described the potential flatmate to him—apparently John was looking for someone tall and skinny with a mop of black hair. There was someone who looked like that leaning against one of the pillars by the door, so John limped over to greet him.<p>

"Are you Sherlock Holmes?" he asked.

The man glanced up and nodded. "John Watson, I presume?"

John nodded. "So, we're going to go look at a flat? Have you got one in mind?"

Holmes shook his head. "Not particularly," he said. He seemed to consider saying something else, but didn't.

"Ah," said John. He glanced up at the sky, then back down at Holmes. Well, relatively down—the man was ridiculously tall. "Well, there's a flat at Baker-street—number 221B—I know is open," he offered. "I know the landlady—Mrs. Hudson, she's a treasure—and she'll probably give us a bit of a discount; I did a favour for her a while back."

"Some kind of medical assistance?" Holmes guessed. "Because you're obviously a doctor; and it must have been some years ago, because you've been away—at war, most likely—was it Afghanistan or Iraq?" He blinked, seemed to realise what he'd said, and dropped his gaze to his shoes, hunching his shoulders defensively, a far cry from the bright, enthusiastic posture of before, when he'd been spouting off all those facts that he couldn't possibly have known. "Sorry," he mumbled. "Sorry—sorry. I didn't mean to. I'm sorry."

John blinked in confusion. "Sorry? Why should you be sorry? That was—that was _brilliant_, that's what that was. You didn't get a thing wrong." He shook his head wonderingly. He'd never met anyone who could do that before. "It was Afghanistan, by the way," he added. "How the hell did you know that, though?"

Holmes glanced up briefly. "Simple," he muttered. "You know Stamford, you're good friends with him—good enough that he worries about you, you've been friends for a while, but he's not military and it's unlikely you met in secondary school—not friends long enough for that—so you met at uni. It's a very long shot, but I guessed you were a doctor based on that data." As he spoke, he grew more animated, standing up straighter, his posture easing from its stiffness. "You're military—stance, haircut—but not necessarily front-line fighter or a pilot—the calluses on your hands are wrong for that. You've got a cane and you limp when you walk, but you don't seem to be in any discomfort when you stand—a psychosomatic limp, then, circumstances of injury traumatic; wounded in action, further supporting my theory that you were military. As for how I knew it was either Afghanistan or Iraq, it's in your tan lines—tan on the face and hands, but not above the wrists or below the neck, so abroad but not on holiday. Add that to the fact that you're military and the pieces were easy to put together. So, Army doctor, invalided home from Afghanistan, looking for a flatshare because no surgery will hire a surgeon with shaking hands and it's impossible to survive alone in London on an Army pension." He stopped, abruptly, and returned to staring blankly at his shoes, his shoulders hunching up again. "Sorry," he repeated. "I don't—I don't normally do this. I'm—sorry, I'll just stop talking, it's only making it worse…" He trailed off.

John blinked in astonishment. "That was _amazing_," he said honestly.

"You think so?" asked Holmes, his pale grey-blue-green eyes wide with slight confusion and—was that _hope_?

"'Course I do," said John. "Are you sure you're just a librarian? Because you could be a detective, with that kind of talent."

"It's not that wonderful," Holmes mumbled, his expression closing down again. "It's—really not." He appeared lost in thought or memory for a moment, then his gaze sharpened and he looked at John. "Shall we go look at that flat, then, Doctor Watson?"

"Yes, all right then," said John, feeling as though he was missing something. "And please, call me John."

"Then I must be Sherlock," said Sherlock.

* * *

><p>As the pair of them walked down the pavement in the direction of Baker-street, Sherlock glanced over at his potential flatmate. He hadn't been scared off (yet) by the deducing, so he was made of pretty stern stuff. Sherlock honestly hadn't meant to say all that—he knew what happened when he took his filters down, so he hadn't done that—but it had just slipped out. He'd been berating himself about that until he'd heard <em>brilliant<em>, then he'd just been confused. There wasn't anything brilliant or amazing about his abilities. They were just annoying barriers to interacting normally with other people. Why was this John Watson lying to him? Could it be that he was simply confused about what Sherlock could do? Surely, after a few demonstrations that nothing could remain secret, John would leave. He'd run away screaming, and Sherlock would have to find another flatmate, and that would require dealing with people, which was really too much work. So, no more deductions, then, but that meant that John would be labouring under a delusion for the entirety of the time that he spent with Sherlock. He couldn't do that to someone—it was always best to be honest. But he couldn't exactly just turn to John and say, "Oh, by the way, I'll always know everything, even if you try to hide it from me," because _that_ wasn't necessarily true either (Sherlock did make mistakes; he made them frequently, in fact), and enough social custom had been drilled into his head through repeated and enforced lessons that he recognised that just saying that sort of thing was Not Good.

So far, though, things were going better than they ever had with a new person. Watson—_John_, Sherlock reminded himself—had seemed to find the deductions amusing rather than frightening, and although this impression was completely incorrect and would probably be dismissed within a week or so, it was entirely novel to Sherlock and thus worthy of study.

_It's a good thing he can't hear me thinking,_ Sherlock thought absently. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, as usual, but he had shortened his stride slightly to accommodate his (potential) flatmate's shorter legs. _Wanting to _study_ him like he's a specimen on a slide. That's definitely a bit—_ And he deliberately stopped his train of thought, because they had reached a black door marked 221B in brass lettering. John rang the bell, then stepped back slightly from the door and stared up at the sky again, like he had before. Probably thinking something over. Sherlock caught himself hoping that John wasn't already reconsidering his decision to at least try sharing a flat with Sherlock. He scoffed mentally at this ridiculous display of sentiment. Just because he hadn't had a proper friend since—since—since a while ago didn't mean he should wish for the friendship of random people he barely knew. That was absurd.

At that moment, the door was opened by an older woman (around fifty or sixty, Sherlock estimated), who exclaimed in surprise upon seeing John and insisted on hugging him.

"It's nice to see you too, Mrs. Hudson," John replied, hugging back and smiling brightly at her. "221B still empty, then?"

"Yes, it is," answered Mrs. Hudson. "Who's this?" She indicated Sherlock.

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock said quietly, ducking a nod in greeting.

"Never met him before today," John explained. "Stamford heard this one was looking for a flatmate, and he knew I was looking for a flatmate, so he introduced us."

"It's good that you're making new friends, John," said Mrs. Hudson, patting him on the shoulder. "How have you been since I saw you last? It's been nearly three years now, hasn't it?"

Sherlock tuned out the small talk and examined his shoes. They were essentially unchanged from the time he'd last looked at them, but the splash patterns from the damp pavement were interesting. Nothing he hadn't seen before, but enough to occupy him until John and Mrs. Hudson finished chatting.

"—but you'll be wanting to come and have a look at the flat," said Mrs. Hudson, gesturing that the two of them should enter the block of flats. "It's just upstairs."

Sherlock noted that there were seventeen steps in the staircase up and stayed quiet while Mrs. Hudson explained the terms that would apply should the two of them choose to move in here. He examined the sitting-room (hideous wallpaper, but the sofa and chairs looked decently comfortable, and the windows let in light without making things overly bright) while he filed away details about the terms of the lease (only mildly important; they were probably written down somewhere), the flat (cosy, but not claustrophobic; there ought be enough room for both of them), and the landlady (married once, widowed or divorced some years ago, three children, all grown).

"This is very nice," said John, glancing around the sitting-room. "Very nice indeed. Sherlock, what do you think?"

Sherlock glanced up from where he'd settled himself into one of the corners. "It's fine. I have no objections."

"I'll just go fetch the lease, then," said Mrs. Hudson, bustling off.

John sighed quietly and sat down in one of the two armchairs. "So what about you?" he asked Sherlock.

"What _about_ me?" replied Sherlock.

"You know practically everything about me," said John. "I'm not quite that observant, so tell me about yourself. Have you got any hobbies? Things I ought know about before we sign the lease?"

Sherlock considered this. What should he tell John? "I play the violin when I'm thinking," he said cautiously. "Sometimes I don't talk for days on end. There might be chemistry experiments in the kitchen—you should probably avoid those. I'll try to keep them out of the food, and if they're causing too much trouble please tell me." Was that too much information? Was that the sort of information that would likely make John run away?

Instead of running away or muttering things about "freakishness", John merely raised his eyebrows. "That so? I'll avoid the chemicals, then, as long as you mark them."

Hesitantly, Sherlock allowed himself to smile just a little. "I'll be sure to mark them, then."

Perhaps this flatmate thing wouldn't be so bad after all.


End file.
